


Truth & Bone

by menel



Series: When the Day is Short [5]
Category: Justified
Genre: Episode Related, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shooting changes everything.</p><p>Blanket spoilers for Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Call in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Do you hear that whooshing sound? That's the sound of my deadlines flying by me because I'm so horribly distracted by this show! To get this out of my system, I've quickly written the first part of what I expect to be three short chapters as a coda to 5x11 The Toll. That way, I can concentrate on _what I'm supposed to be doing_. 
> 
> I hear there's light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I can just ask Boyd to blow it up for me? In the meantime, here's something to whet your appetite. 
> 
> (And a shoutout must go to Deanangst for providing the delicious image of Tim as a heat-seeking missile. Told you I'd use it!)

It’s relatively early but Raylan finds himself back in Tim’s bed for what he knows is the third time in as many days. He doesn’t think about what that means since he was serious when he told Tim as they’d left the office earlier that evening that he was ‘committed’ now. A part of him (the part that he’s not gonna acknowledge) realizes that he was probably committed to Tim long before he ever said it. It’s just taken this particular week, coupled with the general suffocating tension at the office to make all these things finally come together. 

If they’d starting sleeping together sooner – as in actually _sleeping_ in the same bed – Raylan would’ve discovered a few habits of Tim’s that he hadn’t known before. The first is that Tim is a light sleeper. The slightest noise wakes him up and he wakes up completely alert. Unlike Tim, Raylan is slow to rise in the morning, and generally disgruntled until he gets the first bit of caffeine in him. But there’s no lag time for the former army Ranger. Raylan suspects that military training might have had something to do with that particular trait. The second thing – and this Raylan would truly have never guessed – is that Tim is a heat-seeking missile. Neither of them is particularly prone to showing physical affection and Raylan had thought that this would translate into their sleeping arrangements. On the surface, he was right. Tim has a big, comfortable bed, probably his only concession to luxury in his otherwise acetic apartment, and there’s definitely more than enough room for two occupants. However, no matter how far apart they are when they go to sleep, Tim will, at some point in the night, find his way into Raylan’s side of the bed, usually curled into Raylan’s side. Raylan hasn’t been sleeping well so he’s usually awake when this ritual happens. The easiest response is to simply wrap an arm around Tim so that the other man can more comfortably settle into his side, usually using Raylan’s shoulder as a pillow. In the morning when Raylan does wake up, Tim is virtually wrapped around him. Raylan finds that he doesn’t mind. He just never would’ve pegged Tim for being a snuggler. It’s too at odds with his persona at the office. 

At the moment, Tim is not being a heat-seeking missile. He’s sleeping with his back to Raylan, almost a good foot away from him. Raylan curbs the urge to reach out. He’s still bothered by his final conversation with Art, not to mention Tim’s revelation that he’d known about Alison Brander. Raylan doesn’t know why Art took on Alison’s protection detail himself, especially since Art is out to punish him for his perceived transgressions. Raylan had been prepared to take on the protection detail himself, aware that their office is understaffed for something that is technically not under their purview, but given his fragile relationship with his boss, he wasn’t about to question Art’s decision. Then Tim had dropped the bombshell that he’d known about Alison all along and god, Raylan had felt like a complete dick for simply not telling him. But what had there been to tell at the time? _By the way, Tim, thought you should know that I’m seeing Loretta’s social worker. Her name’s Alison Brander. And I’m sleeping with her too._ They didn’t work that way. At least, not back then. They didn’t need each other’s permission, for god’s sake. But things are different now, even if Alison Brander is still occupying his thoughts. He wonders how real the threat to her is and if it _is_ real, then he’s the one to blame for it. Alison was right. She’d told him that he wouldn’t hesitate to run into a burning building to save someone, but that he was just as likely to be the one setting the fire. The people close to him always get hurt and Alison is only the next potential victim. 

Maybe that’s what makes his newfound relationship with Tim so different. Tim understands the risks. He signed up for them when he joined the army, and he signed up again when the joined the U.S. Marshals. Tim walks into danger with him every day and Raylan will never have to worry about him because Tim can take care of himself. Perhaps, even more importantly, Tim’s got his back because that’s what partners do. It’s the first time in his life that he’s not the Lone Ranger, but instead of feeling shackled by the realization, Raylan recognizes the freedom in that. Their working relationship is so seamless, so effortless. They go about their business in such a straightforward manner. He wonders if there’s any reason why that compatibility can’t translate into a personal relationship as well. The idea is startling. 

It’s just as Raylan reaches this epiphany that Tim rolls over and Raylan recognizes it as the heat-seeking moment. Raylan’s prepared when Tim curls into his side and he finds the other man’s body a solid, welcoming presence. 

The ringing of his mobile on the bedside table instantly wakes Tim, making him irritable. 

“Answer your phone,” he grumbles. 

Raylan smiles, reaching over to pick up his phone, while at the same time taking care not to dislodge Tim from his sleeping position. 

“Givens,” he says into the receiver without the slightest hint of sleep in his voice. 

The immediate tension that pervades his body in response to the news he receives is enough of a reaction to alert Tim. He’s already sitting up, a look of concern on his face as Raylan says, “No, it’s all right. I’ll contact Tim and I’ll bring Leslie to the hospital.” 

He hangs up immediately as Tim asks, “What’s wrong?” 

Raylan is getting out of bed and Tim is following suit, even though his question hasn’t been answered yet. 

“That was Rachel,” Raylan informs him as they both begin to dress. “Art’s been shot. Happened at Alison’s apartment. He’s on his way to the hospital.” 

“Fuck,” Tim says in response. “They know who did it?” 

“Details are sketchy,” Raylan replies, clearly agitated. “Alison’s the one who called it in. You better go on ahead to the hospital and find out what you can. They’re bringing him to Saint Joseph’s. Rachel’s already on her way there. I’ve got to get Leslie.” 

“Raylan, this isn’t –” 

The dark look that Raylan sends Tim’s way immediately shuts the other man up. 

“I’ll see you at the hospital,” Tim says instead.

* * * * *

Leslie Mullen is a calm, practical woman whom Raylan hasn’t seen in quite some time. He still remembers how Leslie took Winona under her wing when they’d first moved to Glynco and Raylan had worked with Art teaching firearms training. Those had been in his relatively early days as a Marshal and Winona, still fearful of his job and the risks it entailed, had asked him to go out of the field for a while. Raylan had agreed and had applied for a position teaching what he did best – shooting. So, they’d headed to Glynco where the young couple had met Art and Leslie Mullen.

It is Winona whom Leslie is inquiring after now, no doubt having heard from Art that she’d just had a baby girl. The mood in the car is somber, but Leslie, ever calm and ever levelheaded, sits beside him in her composed manner, talking about Raylan’s baby girl and the challenges that Winona is about to face being a single mother. There is the gentlest reprimand when Leslie says the phrase, “But you don’t know.” 

It’s true. Raylan’s doesn’t know. Raylan has been shirking his responsibilities as a father, a fact that Tim has also gently reminded him of, trying to nudge Raylan in that direction in his own quiet way. Raylan is so perturbed by the conversation of his daughter that he almost misses Leslie’s subtle segue into Art’s condition. 

“’Cause you’re not where you’re needed.” 

“Where I’m needed?” he repeats a little dumbly. 

“Where you can do the most good.” 

“Sorry,” he says, glancing at her. “Are we still speaking ‘bout Winona?” 

But Leslie continues as if he hadn’t said anything. “Why was he alone, Raylan? Chief Deputy, no backup?” 

“He was . . .” Raylan begins, but falters. 

“And why weren’t you there?” 

“Now wait.” 

The accusation cuts deep, much deeper than the suggestion that he’s been a delinquent father because Raylan has been thinking _the very same thing_ since Rachel called to tell him the news. 

“A good man is in the hospital,” Leslie is saying. “And I’m not saying it should be you, Raylan. I just want to know why you weren’t where you were supposed to be.” 

Raylan has no answer for that. Or maybe he does, but it’s not the sort of answer he can give to Leslie Mullen, not at this time. 

_Because Leslie, your husband – my good friend, the closest person who’s ever been a true father figure to me – your husband and I have had a falling out, and it’s all my doing. I fucked up. Again. Real serious this time. And Art’s had it. He’s done with my bullshit. And why was he at that apartment in the first place? Because of me. Because that should’ve been_ my _protection detail and damn Art, for taking it over. I_ should’ve _been there, Leslie. If I truly believed that Alison was in danger, I should’ve been there. But there was a part of me that didn’t think the Crowes would strike right away. That retaliation wouldn’t come so quickly because even assholes need to grieve. You’re right, Leslie. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. And godammit, I don’t even know where that is half the time anymore._

Raylan doesn’t say any of that because he can’t admit it to himself, much less to Leslie Mullen, who is far more deserving of answers than he is. The rest of the car ride is spent in silence.

* * * * *

The hospital corridor leading to ICU seems narrow and stifling to Raylan as he walks behind Leslie Mullen. Two KSP officers have been stationed in the corridor near the nurse’s station, just outside of Art’s room. Rachel greets Leslie with a warm hug before introducing her to Art’s doctor, Dr. Jay Patel. Raylan hangs back, surveying Art’s condition through the wide glass window of ICU. He doesn’t need to be a medical expert to see that Art is in bad shape. He can feel Tim watching him and he meets Tim’s gaze with an even look of his own. Tim’s eyes are bright and piercing. If Raylan can feel that quiet fury gathering around him at Art’s condition, then Tim looks like a powder keg about to explode. As soon as Dr. Patel leads Leslie away, Tim approaches him.

“Is he gonna make it?” Raylan asks right away. 

“He lost a lot of blood,” Tim answers. “They had to put those anti-shock compression pants on him to keep his pressure from bottoming out.” 

“He conscious?” 

“He went out in the ambulance. Hasn’t opened his eyes since.” 

“I don’t suppose he thought to tell the MTs who did this to him?” Raylan jokes half-heartedly. “What about Alison?” he asks, taking a different track. “Did she see anything?” 

“She’s pretty shook up.” 

“Did she see anything or not?” Raylan repeats, unable to keep the testiness out of his voice. 

Tim gives him a sympathetic look and says, “He had her on the floor before she knew there was anything to see.” 

Raylan sighs. 

Rachel, who has been quietly observing their exchange takes that moment to intervene. “Let’s play this out,” she tells them, leading them out into the corridor for more privacy. 

Their discussion is quick. Raylan is convinced that Daryl Crowe, Jr. is behind Art’s shooting, although Rachel throws in the idea of Theo Tonin wanting some payback for being shot by Art a few weeks ago. The possibility is there but it’s miniscule compared to the much more plausible idea of Daryl taking revenge on behalf of his brother Danny. At this point, there’s no way of knowing if Alison was really the target. If that were the case, then Art had simply got caught in the crossfire that was supposed to have drawn Raylan out. Or worse, Raylan thinks, maybe Daryl (or the shooter) hadn’t got a good look at Art. Maybe he’d thought that it was Raylan himself at Alison’s apartment, in which case Art had been mistaken for him. There were simply too many variables in play and not enough facts to figure shit out. He’s so incensed that he briefly turns on Tim at one point, when Tim agrees that Daryl may have run simply because he knew that he’d be their top suspect, whether or not he’d actually done the shooting. 

Tim had lifted his hands in a placating gesture and said, “I’m saying we have to consider it.” 

A silent exchange passes between them then and Raylan’s too pissed to wonder if Rachel can read their dynamics. Rachel is very perceptive. 

“All right,” Raylan agrees, a heartbeat later. “I’ve considered it.” 

“Whatever it is, it’s not your call to make,” Rachel warns him. “Ed Kirkland? Detroit Chief? He’s coming in to head up the investigation, run the office for the time being.” 

Raylan nods. “Makes sense,” he notes. “He and Art go back.” 

“He also goes back with the Tonins,” Rachel adds. “Which means Theo will probably be his first instinct. So, we follow his lead.” 

She gives them both a warning look before heading back to the waiting area outside ICU. 

Tim steps closer to him once Rachel is gone, dropping his voice as he says, “Kirkland’s due within the hour. After that our options shrink.” 

Raylan glances at him. “You talkin’ about any particular option?” 

“The one where we catch up with Daryl,” Tim fills in. “Out in the wild world.” 

“You’d be on board for that?” Raylan asks, mildly curious. 

“It’s Art,” Tim states matter-of-factly. 

“You think that’s what he would want,” Raylan replies, much more to himself than to Tim. 

“I think he’d do it for _us_ ,” Tim says vehemently, cutting Raylan off. 

Raylan is shaking his head. “With all due respect, Tim. I don’t think you know Art as well as I do.” 

Tim steps even closer and there’s no doubt that he’s invading Raylan’s personal space. “I know Art’s important to you,” he says and Raylan half-expects a finger to be jabbed into his chest. “He’s important to me too. And whatever shit is going on between you two, it don’t change the fact that he still cares. That’s why he took the protection detail even though the office is shorthanded. That’s why your ass is out in this hallway now instead of rotting in jail.” 

Tim looks like he’s going to say more, but he reins himself back in. Raylan gets the message. Tim stopped just short of saying that Raylan owes Art and godammit, Raylan _knows_ that. But Raylan sees the situation a bit differently too. Tim’s implying that Art is protecting him and that’s true to a certain extent. What Tim doesn’t see is how Art is also done with him, how Raylan’s actions have irreparably damaged their friendship and their working relationship. If their positions were reversed, Raylan isn’t so sure that Art would do this for him. Raylan’s brand of vigilante justice is precisely what landed him in this predicament with Art in the first place. Art is the anchor that’s constantly reeled him back to shore whenever Raylan’s strayed too far from the path. Since the Nicky Augustine debacle, Raylan’s got the distinct sense that Art has let that anchor go. And yet . . . 

“Rachel’s right,” he tells Tim. “We’ll follow Kirkland’s lead on this.”

Tim is so near that Raylan can clearly see the fire in the other man’s eyes. He can read the challenge there and it’s unlike Raylan to back down. 

“I better check up on Alison,” he adds. 

Alison’s name dampens the blaze in Tim’s eyes somewhat and the other man backs away from him, hands on his hips. He remains quietly defiant. 

“I’ll head back to the office,” Raylan continues. “It’ll be good to meet with Kirkland when he arrives.” 

Tim nods, but he still looks like he’s waiting for something. Raylan’s not sure what it is. 

“And after?” Tim finally says. 

Raylan is puzzled. “Afterwards I’ll head home.” 

Tim nods again, something seemingly settled for him. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” 

“Tomorrow,” Raylan agrees, knowing that ‘tomorrow’ is about an hour away. He turns and walks down the empty corridor, wondering belatedly if Tim had expected him to go back to the apartment. He remembers Leslie Mullen’s words, _You’re not where you’re needed._

Truer words haven’t been said to him in a while. But the problem is Raylan hasn’t figured out where he’s needed, where he _can_ do the most good. He doesn’t know what the people in his life expect of him, and yet he gets the sense that he’s continually letting those people down. People like Art. And Winona. 

He can feel the burn of Tim’s gaze following him down the hallway and he mentally adds Tim’s name to that list.


	2. The Fall Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I've been sticking closely to the canon of Season 5, this is the chapter where I've decided to go off the rails a bit. We'll know how badly this fic has been jossed by Tuesday night. :)

The meeting with Kirkland does not go smoothly, not that Raylan had held out high hopes for it doing so. Neither had he anticipated it to be quite so . . . combative. Kirkland all but grounds him when Raylan requests to be formally put on the task force that is searching for Daryl Crowe, using the familiar play of keeping Raylan as his ‘right-hand man.’ Raylan calls the Interim Chief out on his bullshit, his candid manner both impressing and annoying Kirkland. 

“All right, Deputy. Fair enough,” Kirkland concedes at Raylan’s assessment. “I’ll be straight with you. Yes, I need to keep you close so I can keep an eye on you. I’m concerned that your participation in this investigation . . . it may jeopardize future prosecution.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Raylan fires back. 

“All right, Deputy,” Kirkland says again, his tone growing cold and hard. “We’re done.” 

“Allow me to be straight with you, Chief,” Raylan continues, much to Kirkland’s visible chagrin. “We lose the guy that did this ‘cos you kept me from doing my job? That’s gonna be on you.” 

There’s the faintest flicker of hesitation in Kirkland’s eyes and Raylan can tell that the other man is about to say more, but the entrance of David Vasquez brings their stand-off to an abrupt end. 

“Problem?” Kirkland says, addressing a stunned looking Vasquez. 

“Theo gave it up,” Vasquez replies, as though in a daze. 

“Gave what up?” Raylan asks, perplexed. 

“Says he ordered the hit on Art as payback for bringing him in. He signed an affidavit swearing to it.” 

“Oh Jesus,” Kirkland responds with a heavy sigh. 

“It gets better,” Vasquez adds. “He’s willing to finger the shooter.”

Raylan knows the whole situation is bullshit and he says just as much to the two other men much later that afternoon as the three of them stand in the center of the bustling Lexington office having another one of their ‘sessions.’ Raylan is feeling every moment of his unofficial grounding, also being forbidden from participating in the manhunt that went to arrest Picker, supposedly the shooter in Art’s case. He feels a little better knowing that Tim and Rachel headed the team that arrested Picker and the group that Picker was with, which happened to include Wynn Duffy, Boyd Crowder and other associates. Seemed to be an important meeting, but that doesn’t concern Raylan at the moment.

No, what concerns him is the amount of time that they’re wasting following Theo Tonin’s trail of bullshit. Eventually, Kirkland excuses himself to take a phone call from Washington and a moment later Tim appears to show Vasquez a file. Vasquez’s interest is immediately piqued and there’s an incredulous sort of disbelief to the follow-up questions that he poses to Tim. Raylan lets their conversation wash over him, although he takes note of Tim’s nonplussed response. He feels like a dog with a bone and his scent is trained on the interrogation room with Picker waiting inside. It isn’t long before Vasquez excuses himself as well, asking Tim to follow him. Raylan barely registers their departure, saying to the vacant space they leave behind, almost as a matter of formality, “I’m gonna go in there.” 

Picker’s relief is palpable when Raylan enters the interrogation room. 

“Finally,” the Detroit mobster says. “Someone I can reason with.” 

Raylan isn’t feeling so generous. “I want a name,” he says, approaching the interrogation table.

“Me too,” Picker agrees. “The scrawny guy? Who is he?” 

“I want a name,” Raylan repeats, sitting down opposite the other man. 

“I want an apology,” Picker insists. “That rat-faced little prick tweaked my back when I was getting in the car. It’s like he doesn’t understand the special relationship I have with you guys.” 

Raylan’s expression has grown cold and hard. “That relationship? That’s over,” he informs Picker. 

“Really?” 

“Today we got a whole different set of problems.” 

Picker looks somewhat subdued. “Yeah, I heard,” he says. “My condolences. Seriously,” he adds, when Raylan doesn’t react. 

Raylan would never admit it aloud but Picker does sound and look genuinely contrite. He doesn’t let the mobster’s sympathy affect the way he conducts the interrogation, although Picker’s stance is softer once their conversation shifts towards Art’s condition. Picker truly doesn’t understand what he’s doing there and he’s completely flabbergasted when Raylan informs him that Theo Tonin has fingered him as Art’s shooter. 

“Really?” Picker says incredulously. “The last time you dragged me in here you thought he was trying to kill me. Now you believe I’m taking his orders?”

The proposition sounds absurd to Raylan, more so to hear Picker say it aloud like that, but he sticks to the game plan. 

“More’s than believe. Got the proof. Got all we need as a matter of fact. Congratulations. You’re the prime suspect.” 

“Show me what the hell you got,” Picker demands. 

“You’ll hear it in court,” Raylan replies off-handedly. 

“This again?” Picker is incensed. “The land of complete bullshit? You guys really should learn a new tune, you know that?” 

“Looking at forty years to life, my buddy.” 

Picker drops his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah,” Raylan continues. “Or if Art dies . . . in that case you’re gonna regret you left Michigan ‘cos Kentucky does still favor the death penalty.” 

“I played ball,” Picker protests, still shaking his head. 

“Yes, you did,” Raylan agrees. 

“I played ball, Marshal,” Picker says more vehemently. “And now you’re gonna hang this job on me?” 

“It’s very simple.” 

“C’mon.” 

“It goes away. You give me a name.” 

“I’m not a snitch.” 

“I got an affidavit says you are.” 

“Why should I help you?” Picker explodes. 

“Again? I believe I made that more than clear.” 

“No, I mean why would I help you besides the fact that you’re an asshole?” 

“There is no other reason.” 

Raylan knows they’ve reached a stalemate. He can read the signs and he can wait Picker out. The funny thing is, Picker is right. They do have a special relationship and it’s not because Picker protected him by naming Barkley as the fed involved in Nicky Augustine’s demise. Raylan has no doubt that Picker did that to cultivate favor with him, to make sure that the Marshal would _owe_ him sometime in the future. That’s just how the world works, and the world of law enforcement is no exception. No, his special relationship with Picker had started on a Kentucky airfield after Picker had searched him for a wire before escorting him to Nicky’s limo. They’d had a pleasant conversation then because both men had understood their place in the world. There’s a kind of honor in that, even if one of them was on the wrong side of the law. Being on the _right_ side of the law had been a blurry proposition at best on that particular night. 

“You once told me,” Raylan says, breaking the stalemate. “That the higher up the mountain you are, the worse the footing gets. That still true?” 

Picker leans back in his chair, a ghost of a smile on his face. Raylan knows that the other man recalls the conversation. 

“And you pointed out that in a plane crash, first class always hits the hardest,” he replies. 

“Your plane is going down,” Raylan tells him, leaning in. “Don’t jump out of it without a parachute. Give me a name.” 

Picker looks at him evenly. “Daryl Crowe is what I heard.”

* * * * *

Raylan is let out on a tight leash when Wendy Crowe calls to say that Daryl will give himself up, but on the condition that he’ll only give himself up to Raylan.

Kirkland’s disbelief was there for everyone in the office to see when Nelson Dunlop informed Raylan that he had a ‘telephone call.’ “Oh, Jesus,” Kirkland had exclaimed in exasperation. “Can it wait?” 

“Daryl Crowe’s sister says he wants to turn himself in,” Nelson had replied in his easygoing manner. 

“Great,” Raylan had told him. “She knows where we are.” 

“Says he’ll only turn himself in to you,” Nelson had added a bit more sheepishly.

Kirkland had turned to Raylan then, a sort of dawning understanding coming over the Interim Chief. It was a dawning understanding that said, _Holy shit. This is the kind of crap that Art deals with every day. It don’t matter how close I wanna keep this guy to my vest, the maelstrom will always draw him back in. Maybe the Lexington office really does revolve around Raylan Givens and his shenanigans._

Raylan’s foray into the wild world was brief and ultimately unproductive. It was a set-up, as he’d suspected it would be, and he returned to the office empty-handed save for a badly beaten Wendy Crowe. Apparently, the real action had happened while he was away and Tim fills him in on the details. 

“He just marched right in here,” the sniper is saying. “Arms in the air and Kendal in front him. Said he was here to surrender.” 

“Just like that?” 

“Just like that.” 

The two of them are standing in front of Raylan’s desk, as Raylan watches the reunion between mother and son. It seems joyful enough as Wendy smiles at something that Kendal just said, the kid leaning back into the large cushioned office chairs of the conference room. 

“Vasquez didn’t even want us to go in there and give the kid a soda,” Tim says, following the direction of Raylan’s gaze. “He’s terrified Daryl’s lawyer will say we tried to talk to the kid without a guardian present, get him disqualified as a witness.” 

“What about Daryl himself? Are we talkin’ to him?” 

“Kirkland and Vasquez are in there with him,” Tim replies. They both glance at the closed interrogation room door. “Guess he must’ve waived the attorney.” 

“He’s probably waiting for his sister,” Raylan supplies. 

At that moment, the interrogation room door opens and Kirkland and Vasquez emerge. Kirkland motions for Raylan and Tim to follow the two of them into the conference room. The two deputies exchange a look. 

“Can’t be good,” Tim mutters as they fall into step behind their superiors.

* * * * *

It isn’t good. In fact, it’s bloody awful as the whole room listens to Kendal Crowe confess to Art’s shooting. Raylan can barely stand it. Everyone else is too shocked to react. It doesn’t escape Raylan’s notice that Kendal looked right at him before he ‘confessed.’ It was almost a look of apology, one that Raylan didn’t comprehend until the words started falling from Kendal’s lips. Raylan has to give him credit. The kid’s a good actor. Vasquez’s tone becomes soft and placating as he takes down Kendal’s statement, Wendy’s tears are genuine as she hugs her son (Raylan doubts she knew that this was going to happen), Rachel looks sympathetic, as does Kirkland. Kendal’s got the whole office in the palm of his hand save for Raylan and Tim, who after his initial shock, gave Raylan a look that said, _What the fuck is going on?_

Raylan knows _exactly_ what’s going on and _exactly_ who’s behind it. He’d never pegged Daryl Crowe to be a criminal mastermind, not with the genes in that particular family, but he has to give Daryl the most credit for Kendal’s performance. He didn’t think Daryl would be able to do this – to get his own nephew to be the fall guy in order to avoid another stint – a much longer stint, maybe even a permanent one – in prison. Possibly the death penalty. It’s a full-proof alibi made all the sweeter by the fact that Kendal is underage and won’t face the unforgiving nature of real jail time, but the less damning (although still terrible) sentence of a juvenile detention facility. Worse, they’ve managed to milk Danny’s death for all it’s worth, painting the Marshals as the bad guys and giving Kendal’s fear of them a real legitimacy so quickly after his uncle’s death. It’s wrong, any way that Raylan cuts it, and he can’t abide by it. He manages to hold it all in, up until the point where Kendal is done giving his statement. Then Raylan looks Kendal right in the eye as he says, as though they were the only two people in the room: 

“That’s not how it happened.” 

The silence and tension in the conference room could be cut with a knife. Raylan attributes the lack of reaction to shock – shock that he’d had the temerity to say anything at all, much less challenge the moving testimony of a sixteen-year-old. 

“Now wait a minute,” the Crowes’ defense lawyer blusters, offended on behalf of his client. 

The look Raylan gives him silences the diminutive man immediately. 

“Kendal,” Raylan says, taking a step towards the conference table. 

“Stop right there, Deputy,” Kirkland warns, swiveling in his seat to face Raylan. 

Tim has stepped forward too and Raylan isn’t sure whether it’s to back him up or to act as a barrier between him and Kirkland. He thinks it’s a bit of both. Raylan doesn’t move forward again, but he holds Kendal’s gaze. Throughout Kendal’s ‘confession,’ he’d been stealing glances at Raylan. The people in the room probably thought that it was out of fear, that Raylan represented everything that the Crowes thought was wrong with the Marshal service and that had led to this terrible tragedy. But Raylan knows otherwise. Kendal was trying to reach out to him in the most public of venues because there was no other way for him to do so. And it’s not too late to change the course of this particular tide. 

“Kendal,” Raylan says again. “How about we have a chat? Just the two of us?” 

The Crowes’ lawyer looks gob smacked. “Why on earth would the boy want to do that? He’s terrified of you.” 

“Is he?” Raylan questions, but he looks only at Kendal as he says so. 

“This is a bad idea,” Vasquez cuts in. “That’s not gonna happen. We have everything we need.” 

“It’ll be off the books,” Raylan says, turning his attention to the AUSA. “Nothing Kendal says will rescind the testimony he just gave. It’ll just be a friendly chat.” 

“Then what would be the point?” Vasquez shoots back. 

“Stop typing,” Kirkland orders the court-appointed stenographer. The Interim Chief can tell that things might get out of hand and he doesn’t want this on the record. He looks at Raylan darkly. 

“Vasquez is right,” Kirkland says. “Thank you for your assistance, Deputy. But we have everything we need.” His look warns Raylan to drop the subject . . . or else. 

But at that moment, Kirkland doesn’t have the most power in the room and neither does AUSA Vasquez. That honor belongs to Kendal Crowe and the man of the hour shocks everyone by saying, “I don’t mind speaking to the Marshal. Alone,” he adds. 

“Kendal,” Wendy says sharply, her voice filled with alarm. “You don’t have to.” 

Kendal turns to her. “I know,” he says. “But I want to. Only if it’s off the books,” he repeats, looking at Raylan once more. 

Raylan nods. “Off the books,” he confirms. 

Vasquez is shaking his head. “Sorry, kid,” he tells Kendal. “But you don’t have the power to decide that.” 

“And you don’t have anything,” Kendal says, gesturing at Vasquez’s notepad. “They’re just notes. I haven’t signed shit.” 

There’s another stunned silence in the room and Raylan has to look down lest people see how amused he is. Beside him, he can feel the same amusement radiating off of Tim. A sixteen-year-old has them all by the balls. It’s just been that kind of day. 

Vasquez looks like he’s about to protest that their ‘hearing’ has been official in every manner possible – hell, there’s a court stenographer in the room with them – when Kirkland holds up a hand. 

“Why do you want to talk to the Marshal?” he asks Kendal gently. 

Kendal looks at Raylan in a silent plea for help, but there’s nothing Raylan can say at that point. The kid has to think on his feet and Kendal doesn’t disappoint. 

“Because he may be an asshole, but he’s not a bad guy.” 

“Shit,” Tim says under his breath and only for Raylan’s hearing. “The kid really does know you.” 

Kirkland glances back at Raylan again before speaking to Kendal once more. “You don’t think the Marshal means you harm?” 

“Not me personally.” 

The Interim Chief sits back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “I s’ppose we could give them a few minutes,” he says thoughtfully. 

“Ed, you can’t be serious,” Vasquez protests. 

Kirkland holds up his hand again. “I’m curious to see where this will lead,” he admits. 

Raylan takes another step forward, fairly confident that he won’t be reprimanded this time. “Since this an unofficial chat and all,” he tells Kirkland. “How about I take Kendal downstairs to the cafeteria for some ice cream?” 

Kirkland’s expression clearly says, _Now I know_ you _can’t be serious_. “Or we can have something brought up here,” he suggests instead. 

“What I mean,” Raylan presses. “Is than an unofficial chat needn’t be in such . . . _official_ surroundings.” 

Kirkland is a combination of amusement, exasperation and irritation as he shakes his head. “I don’t know how Art does it,” he says to Raylan, dropping his voice. “You really are his problem-child.” 

“So have someone baby-sit me,” Raylan carries on. He gestures to Tim and Rachel. “Have Tim and Rachel tag along, make sure I don’t spirit Kendal off anywhere or do anything else . . . questionable,” he says at last. 

“We’re used to doing that,” Rachel supplies, throwing Raylan a concerned look. “We’ll look after Kendal.”

“I guess it’s settled then,” Kirkland says, almost in defeat. He stands up. “Clear the room,” he orders. Then he gives Raylan an appraising look. “And take the boy down for . . . ice cream.” 

“I’m coming too,” Wendy Crowe demands, standing up simultaneously. 

“Your call,” Raylan tells her. “But you’re sitting at another table with these deputies. It’s a private conversation.” 

The conference room empties slowly, Vasquez still muttering about Kirkland’s decision, until it’s just Raylan and Kendal left inside. Tim, Rachel and Wendy are waiting for them near Raylan’s desk. 

“You really gonna buy me ice cream?” Kendal asks, as though it were the lamest suggestion in the world. 

“I have a particular fondness for it myself,” Raylan admits, walking around the conference table until he’s standing beside Kendal’s chair. “Unless you want something else?” 

Kendal gets up, tugging on his hoodie as he does so. “I’m partial to hot chocolate.” 

“The hot chocolate in the cafeteria ain’t nothing to write home about,” Raylan warns as they head towards the door. “There’s more water in it than cocoa or milk.” 

Kendal glances up at him. “I guess ice cream will do then.”


	3. Blood Brothers

The cafeteria at the Lexington courthouse is relatively small – cozy, if one were being generous – and located on the second floor. Kendal ends up ordering both ice cream (pistachio for him, vanilla for Raylan) and hot chocolate. Raylan isn’t sure how that combination is going to work, but he doesn’t question it. Through his peripheral vision, he sees Tim, Rachel and Wendy settle down three tables away, enough to give them privacy but also to clearly keep them in sight. They all have cups of coffee and it looks like Tim has ordered a slice of pie. Raylan knows he’s corrupted the other man in that department. Pecan has become Tim’s favorite pie and it’s not a coincidence that pecan is Raylan’s favorite as well. 

Although the whole purpose of going to the cafeteria was to have a conversation, he and Kendal end up eating their ice cream in peaceful silence, especially compared to the high stakes tension of the conference room. 

When Kendal is down to his last bite, Raylan finally says, “Remember what I said about keeping your head down, thinking about the road ahead?” 

Kendal looks up at him. “Remember what I said that be unlikely with my asshole family?” 

Raylan is unfazed. “Did you get that ATV?” 

“Nope.” 

“Then I guess some of what I said got through.” 

Kendal scrapes the last of the pistachio ice cream from the bowl before moving onto his cooling hot chocolate. He takes a long sip before he continues. “I meant to keep the money,” he says, almost apologetically. “But Daryl found it. He was pissed. Wanted to know where I got it from so I lied. Told him I stole it off the customers when they were busy with the whores.” 

“He believed that you stole two thousand dollars from your paying clientele?” 

“It’s more believable than saying the Marshal whose guts he hates and has a vendetta against our family just gave it to me,” Kendal retorts. 

“Makes sense,” Raylan agrees, polishing off the last of his ice cream. He sets the bowl aside. “You really think I have a vendetta against your family?” he asks, thoughtfully. 

“You ain’t gonna stop until we’re all dead or in jail.” 

“There’s only one more to go and I ain’t talkin’ about you or your mom,” Raylan tells him. He sighs. “Your Uncle Danny was a sack of shit but I’m sorry about the way he went.” 

“My uncle Danny was a real sonofabitch,” Kendal replies quietly, eyes glued to the cup of hot chocolate as he moves it in slow circles in his hands. “He’d go off on you for no reason at all. I was scared shitless of him half the time . . . but he was still my uncle.” 

Raylan nods. He understands, more than Kendal could possibly realize. But he doesn’t offer his sympathy. It would be hypocritical and he doesn’t think it’s wanted. 

“You gonna tell me what _really_ happened?” 

Kendal freezes and Raylan can practically see all the goodwill between them grow as cool as Kendal’s hot chocolate. He eyes Raylan warily and then shakes his head. “It don’t matter if we’re off the books,” he admits. “You can’t help me.” 

“I can help you more than Daryl,” Raylan points out. 

Kendal’s reverted to staring at his hot chocolate again, but he’s still shaking his head. “It don’t work that way.” 

“It could.” 

Kendal stops twisting the cup and lets his right hand fall on the table, palm face up. Raylan can see that his palm has been bandaged. “You cut yourself?” he asks. 

“No,” Kendal answers. “It means I’m a Crowe.” 

“A blood bond,” Raylan surmises. He can guess who must be carrying a similar cut on their hand. “You ever hear that proverb, ‘Blood is thicker than water?’” 

“Everybody knows that,” Kendal replies. “It means family ties are stronger than pretty much everything else.” 

“Actually,” Raylan says, “that’s the misconception. The real proverb goes, ‘The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,’ which means that most people have got it backwards. ‘Blood’ here don’t refer to ‘blood relations.’” 

“So what does it refer to?” 

“It refers to soldiers who die together in battle,” Raylan explains. “‘Cos the blood that you spilled with those brothers is stronger than anything, even the bonds between you and the family that you chanced to be born into.” Raylan pauses, gesturing at Kendal’s hand. “It was also used for ‘blood covenants,’ which is what it looks like you have right now.” 

Kendal glances down at his hand, using his opposite thumb to trace the line of the bandage. “You going somewhere with all this?” 

Raylan isn’t entirely sure himself but since he started down this path, he knows he has to see it through. 

“It’s time to choose, Kendal.” 

Kendal’s head snaps up so quickly that Raylan gets the distinct impression that the kid may have heard this pep talk before. Maybe even recently. 

“Your Uncle Daryl,” Raylan continues smoothly, “wants you to believe that family blood is just as strong as blood bonds.” 

“A lot of Crowe blood has been spilled, Marshal,” Kendal says, his expression sullen and his voice flat. 

“It has,” Raylan concedes. “But we don’t decide what family we’re born into. You can _make_ your family, Kendal. Sometimes that means cutting clean ties.” 

“What about my mom? You saying I should cut ties with her too?” 

“No,” Raylan replies. “Your mom’s made mistakes, but she does love you. And if you meant what you said in the conference room, are you really going to leave her alone for a crime you didn’t commit?” 

“How do you know I _didn’t_ do it?” Kendal suddenly asks, vehemently. 

“Did you?” Raylan fires back. 

Kendal’s expression is tight and Raylan knows that he’s on the verge of admitting the truth – whatever that may prove to be. Even if Raylan can’t use it to rescind Kendal’s testimony, confirmation that Kendal wasn’t Art’s shooter would be enough for Raylan to go after Daryl . . . hard. Hell, he knows he’s going to go after Daryl with everything he’s got anyway . . . but anything that Kendal can give him would help. 

The moment passes and the fire in Kendal’s eyes burns away into something muted as he purposely takes the time to finish the rest of his hot chocolate. When he puts the cup down, it’s clear that he’s not going to answer the question. 

“Kendal,” Raylan says seriously. “You should know that I’m gonna go after your Uncle, whether you’re in the line of fire or not. It’s best that you’re not.” 

“So you’re asking me to betray my family to you? Because blood is thicker than water?” 

“I’m asking you to make the right choice. And the hardest ones to make are usually the right ones.” 

Kendal stands up abruptly, his chair scraping on the floor behind him. “I think this conversation is over, Marshal,” he states. He takes a step to leave before he halts and looks back at Raylan. “Thanks for the ice cream . . . and the hot chocolate.” 

Raylan leans back in his seat, looking up at the youngest Crowe. He nods. Kendal interprets that nod to be a dismissal and he walks towards the table where Tim, Rachel and his mother are waiting. Tim and Rachel are already standing up. They’d probably watched the entire exchange like hawks and had sprung into action the moment Kendal had stood up. Tim, in fact, is heading for their table and he passes Kendal, who walks straight into Wendy’s arms, on the way. Rachel gives Raylan a half wave, indicating that she and Wendy will bring Kendal back to the Marshal’s service. Raylan returns the wave with one of his own as Tim takes the seat opposite him, the same one just vacated by Kendal. 

“He tell you anything?” Tim asks. 

Raylan, who was watching Kendal leave the cafeteria, turns around to face his partner. “Not what I was hoping to hear,” he admits. 

“But you still don’t think he did it?” Tim pushes. 

“Do you?” 

The sniper shrugs. “My gut says ‘no,’” he also admits. “But who the hell knows? Maybe Daryl did put him up to it. Maybe Kendal really took the shot even if he was coerced somehow. We just don’t know. Worse, we’ve got a confession now.” 

“You’re not helping,” Raylan points out, his face grim. 

“What are you gonna do?” 

“Isn’t that up to Kirkland to decide?” 

Tim arches an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But knowing you, you’ll find a way around that or just . . .” he trails off and gives Raylan a pointed look. 

Raylan stands up. “I got an errand or two to run,” he says. 

“Not going to report to the Chief about your talk with Kendal? He’d probably like to know.” 

“You can tell him there ain’t much to report,” Raylan replies. “’Sides, Vasquez already has the confession as you just reminded me. This was all off-the-books, right?” 

“Fair enough.” Tim pauses, but he sounds dissatisfied. He gives Raylan another piercing look. “You stopping by later?” 

Raylan is surprised by the directness of the question and he visibly hesitates. He knows that Tim can read his uncertainty even though the other man doesn’t react. “I dunno,” he answers truthfully. At Tim’s careful indifference, he revises with a shrug, “I might.” 

Tim stands up as well. “Door’s always open,” he tells Raylan. “In case you need reminding.”

* * * * *

The last person Raylan expects to see later that afternoon is Wendy Crowe, but he runs into her just as she’s getting into the elevator. She falters for a split second when she spots him, but regains her cool quickly enough to enter the elevator before the doors slide shut. They stand side-by-side in the confined space, just the two of them, not speaking.

“You really just gonna let this happen?” Raylan asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence. 

Wendy gives him an accusing look. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says, defensively. 

“You’re going to let your _son_ take the fall for your brother,” Raylan clarifies. 

Wendy looks away, shaking her head in disgust. “Why would you even think that?” 

Raylan turns to face her. “How can _you_ believe that Kendal is the shooter?” he challenges. 

“Why would he lie?” she asks helplessly. 

“Because your brother is who he is,” Raylan states, coming to the sudden realization that Wendy honestly believes that Daryl is incapable of setting Kendal up. It’s a hard truth to hear and evidently one that Wendy isn’t prepared for. “Did he do that to your face?” 

Wendy looks away again and her silence is answer enough. She looks tired and haggard, a far cry from the feisty redhead with the whip smart tongue who could spin a yarn at a moment’s notice that he had first met in Florida. 

“Wendy,” Raylan says quietly. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Wendy says, her face still averted and her arms crossed in front of her. “I just don’t know. I took these pills to go to sleep and when I woke up he was gone.” 

“That’s not what you said earlier,” Raylan tells her. 

The elevator has reached the ground floor. The doors open but neither of them move. When a man waiting in the hallway walks towards their elevator car, Raylan looks him straight in the eye as he states, “Private car” while simultaneously pressing the button to close the doors. He doesn’t choose another floor but the elevator begins its upward descent anyway. 

“What you said,” Raylan continues smoothly, “is that Daryl had Kendal. That you had no choice but to set up a meet so that Daryl could turn himself in and avoid Kendal getting caught in the crossfire.” 

“That’s true,” Wendy insists. She looks at Raylan again. “It _is_ true,” she emphasizes. “I don’t know what happened at Alison’s apartment. All I know is . . . I have to be there for Kendal. I’ve failed him too many times . . . and he’s my son.” 

Raylan is struck by the honesty he sees there. The pain and guilt is too real and too raw. He isn’t going to be able to get anything out of her in this state. 

“You should rest,” he says after a long moment. 

Wendy shakes her head. “I . . . I shouldn’t,” she replies. She seems disoriented. “I need to be close to Kendal . . . in case he needs me.” 

The elevator stops again and when the doors open, they’re right outside the Marshal’s service. Nelson Dunlop is waiting and this time Raylan doesn’t prevent him from joining them in the car. 

“Raylan,” Nelson says to him in greeting. “Ms. Crowe,” he adds, nodding to Wendy. 

“Nelson,” Raylan replies. Wendy gives the other Marshal a tight-lipped smile. 

Deputy Dunlop stands in front of them, closer to the elevator doors. His presence ends their conversation and the three of them ride downstairs in silence.

* * * * *

Raylan’s fury at having to release Daryl Crowe Jr. quietly builds for the rest of the day. To burn off some of the anger, he ends up at the shooting range, unloading round after round into paper targets, the bullets neatly packed into the chest or the head. He doesn’t know where Tim is – the other man must’ve clocked out a while ago – but that doesn’t stop the sniper from sneaking into his thoughts. Thinking of Tim is unsettling him as well, so he shoots until he’s gone through enough rounds to kill an army of Crowes, but it still isn’t enough. Afterwards, he finds himself aimlessly driving around the streets of Lexington until he winds up at a bar on the outskirts of the city. The place is a dive and it suits his mood perfectly. He almost wishes that some asshole were stupid enough to mess with him tonight. Almost. But that doesn’t happen and he’s left alone to drink his bourbon in peace.

When he’s hit but not yet on the road to being smashed, he pays his tab and leaves the bar. He intends to go home and crawl into bed but his subconscious has other plans. That’s the only explanation Raylan has when he’s ringing Tim’s doorbell that late at night. It doesn’t take Tim long to answer and for the second time that week, Raylan’s leaning against the corridor, this time without the offering of a six-pack. 

“I know it’s late –” he begins. 

“Where else would you be?” Tim cuts him off. He opens the door wide to allow Raylan to enter. 

Raylan stands – well, _leans_ – against the wall for a moment longer and takes a good look at Tim. The other man has changed out of the clothes he was wearing at the office, but Raylan doesn’t get the impression that Tim was preparing for bed. In fact, Tim’s alertness makes him feel as though he were being expected, maybe even waited for. 

Raylan pushes off the corridor wall and walks inside. 

“Beer?” Tim asks as he shuts and locks the front door. 

Raylan is standing in the hallway, just at the entrance to the living room, surveying the space in front of him but not quite entering the room either. The TV is on. There’s a replay of a basketball game playing. He takes note of the empty beer bottles on the coffee table (Tim’s been drinking too) beside the opened box of a large-sized pepperoni pizza. 

Raylan shakes his head. Beer and pizza is not what he came here for. 

Tim must know this too because he walks into the living room and turns off the television. He finishes the last of his beer, eyes on Raylan the whole time before placing the bottle next to its companions on the coffee table. He doesn’t bother to clean up. Instead, he walks down the hallway, headed straight for the open door of the master bedroom. 

Raylan pauses a moment before he follows. Some part of him feels like the two of them are back at square one. A fight or a fuck, he used to think of it. Stress release. Him winding up here tonight is a kind of regression. But maybe it’s not, he rationalizes to himself as he walks down the hallway. Maybe Tim needs this as badly as he does. Maybe it’s not just about sex. 

There’s no more time to dwell on _why_ they’re about to do what they’re about to do because they’re already doing it. Raylan’s pinned against the door of the master bedroom, the force of his weight shutting it as Tim is devouring him and tugging at his clothes. Tim’s always been the efficient stripper between the two of them and since Raylan is wearing far more clothing than he is, he’s more than eager to help. Raylan’s jacket is shed, followed by the shirt that he’s wearing underneath. Tim is pulling him by his belt towards the bed, undoing the buckle at the same time and then the top button on his jeans. Raylan halts Tim’s actions by reaching over and pulling the other man’s t-shirt over his head. Tim obliges, yanking his boxers off immediately afterwards. 

_Efficient_ , Raylan thinks, taking a moment to admire the body he’s come to know so well over these past few months. Tim is reaching for him again, about to finish pulling off his jeans when Raylan stops him once more, this time with a firm hand to his chest so that Tim lands gently on the bed. Tim looks vaguely amused, as he eyes Raylan from his sitting position. Raylan places a denim-clad knee in between Tim’s legs and Tim automatically spreads his legs a little wider. Then Raylan is reaching behind him, pulling something out of his jeans. Tim’s grin slices a little sharper when his eyes land on the pair of handcuffs that Raylan is holding. This is new territory for them, but apparently Tim has no objections. 

“How do you want me?” he asks. 

“Face down,” Raylan answers. 

Tim holds his gaze a moment longer before he complies, scooting up the bed and then lying down on his stomach, legs still spread and arms by his sides. Raylan kicks off his boots and socks before pulling his jeans off. All the while, Tim is patiently waiting and Raylan is struck by the trust that the other man has in him. They’ve never talked about anything like this and for him to turn up on this particular night with handcuffs? It’s . . . out of their comfort zone. But Tim is going to go along with whatever Raylan has in mind because he _trusts_ him. 

Raylan moves back up the bed, now as naked as his partner. He takes Tim’s right wrist and snaps one half of the handcuff around it. Tim instinctively moves his left wrist behind him as well, probably expecting Raylan to cuff his wrists together. Raylan has other ideas. Instead, he leans over Tim, pulling Tim’s right wrist above him, cuffing him to one of the iron rails of the headboard. Then with another pair of handcuffs, he takes Tim’s left wrist and cuffs it to the other side of the headboard so that Tim is stretched out. 

“Okay?” Raylan whispers, planting a kiss on Tim’s left shoulder. 

Tim nods, but gives his handcuffs a tug as if to test their strength and his own maneuverability. Raylan laughs softly against his ear, nipping the shoulder he just kissed before moving back down Tim’s body. He traces the outline of Tim’s spine with his fingers and lips, leaving a sensitive trail behind him. When he gets to Tim’s ass, he slides a finger down the crack and circles Tim’s opening with a sly smile. Tim thinks he knows what’s coming but Raylan can tell that the other man is completely unprepared when he dives down. The handcuffs were a good idea. Tim is so shocked that he jerks away automatically and even after he’s able to wrap his head around the fact that Raylan is licking his asshole, the sheer overload of sensation would probably have him crawling up the wall if it weren’t for the handcuffs. 

“Fuck,” Tim gasps, when Raylan’s tongue penetrates him again. 

Raylan chuckles, pausing in his actions to say, “We’ll get to that.” 

“Oh, Jesus,” Tim moans, giving one of the cuffs a frustrated tug, but the rest of his curses are muffled as he buries his head into the pillows. He’s pushing back now as much as the cuffs will allow, rocking his hips into the bed to gain some friction. 

When Raylan thinks he’s tortured his partner enough, he moves forward and pulls open the drawer of the bedside table, knowing this is where Tim keeps supplies. 

“No,” Tim tells him, turning his head to look at Raylan’s. “I want to feel you and we’re both clean anyway. Don’t mind the pain.” 

Translation? He wants the pain, Raylan thinks. 

Raylan takes the lube out anyway before he shuts the drawer. He hasn’t prepped Tim as much as either of them is used to, and that’s not going to stop him from slicking himself up. Bare-backing isn’t something they do often either, but if Tim wants this . . . 

When Raylan’s done prepping himself, he curves an arm around Tim’s waist, lifting the other man onto his knees, fingers grazing Tim’s neglected cock as he does so. Tim follows his lead, keeping his head down as he strains to bring himself into contact with Raylan’s hand again, but Raylan’s grip is firm and stills his actions. There’s no time to complain, however, since Raylan is guiding himself in, one long stroke that breaches Tim’s body. Raylan pushes through the tightness and the all-encompassing heat. Tim’s hasn’t been stretched enough and he knows that this must be uncomfortable for the other man but Tim just sighs into the pillows. He waits a moment when he’s fully sheathed, giving his partner time to adjust but Tim is restless beneath him. Tim takes the initiative, moving forward and then slamming back against him. Raylan grins even though Tim can’t see him. Tim wants it hard and fast tonight. He can oblige. With one hand digging into Tim’s waist, he uses his other hand to fist Tim’s cock, gripping the base so tightly it must hurt. Tim grunts at his action but doesn’t protest. 

“Fuck Raylan,” Tim snarls. “Get on with it.” 

Raylan can’t help but laugh at Tim’s response. “So pushy,” he teases, purposely giving the cock in his hand another firm squeeze to make his point. 

“Fuck,” Tim says again, his body laced with tension and anticipation. 

Before Tim can provoke another reaction, Raylan has pulled out and slammed in again, hitting Tim’s spot with practiced ease and he sets a brutal pace after that. The room is quiet except for the sound of flesh smacking flesh and the rhythmic clink of metal as the cuffs are tugged while the headboard hits the wall with every thrust. Tim makes no noise, his head once again buried in the pillows. Raylan feels the quiet fury that’s been contained in him all day seeking its release. _This_ is why he came here. _This_ is why Tim has been so eager to comply. Tim needs the same kind of release. They fall over the cliff together, Raylan’s orgasm ripping through him and taking Tim along with him. Tim’s cock explodes in his hand and Raylan automatically milks it for every last drop, even as he’s spilling himself deep inside the other man. 

Afterwards, Raylan falls on his back beside Tim, a lazy look of satisfaction on his face. 

“Hey,” Tim says, tugging on his left cuff for emphasis. 

Raylan grins at him. “I could get used to you like this,” he comments. 

Before Tim can fire back with one his sharp replies, Raylan half slides underneath him, pulling Tim down by the back of his neck for a languorous post-coital kiss. 

“That’s _my_ play,” Tim says with a fake petulance when the kiss ends, resting his head on Raylan’s chest. 

“It’s a good play,” Raylan agrees, running a hand down Tim’s back. 

Tim tugs at his handcuffs again, giving Raylan a pointed look as he does so. 

“Yeah, all right,” Raylan finally says. 

He slides out from underneath Tim and stands up. The key to the handcuffs is somewhere in the pocket of his jeans. He retrieves it, picking up a warm face towel from the bathroom as he does so before wandering back to his side of the bed. He sits down, reclining against the headboard before reaching over Tim to unlock the cuff of Tim’s right hand. With his right hand free, Tim immediately turns over on his back and makes no pretense about curling into Raylan’s side, waiting as Raylan unlocks the cuff on his left wrist. He briefly rubs the redness on his wrist where the cuff chafed his skin before draping himself more fully over Raylan. 

Raylan doesn’t object as he lays back down on the bed, automatically accommodating Tim and passing him the face towel so the other man can clean himself up, but he also can’t help rubbing it in a little. “Didn’t think snuggling was part of your vocabulary,” he notes, the affection evident in his voice. 

“It’s appropriate behavior after any bondage,” Tim replies without missing a beat. “Next time you’re going to be cuffed. Vertically,” he adds. “And with a spreader.” 

Raylan’s lazy grin grows wider. “Done this before, have you?” he inquires. 

“Not really,” Tim admits. “But I figured it was just a matter of time before we started experimenting. ‘Sides, you look like a whips-and-chains kinda guy.” 

Raylan barks out a laugh. “Is that so?” 

“It’s the cowboy hat,” Tim tells him, sounding sleepy. 

“Sure, Sleeping Beauty,” Raylan replies, receiving a half-hearted hit in his side. 

The banter tapers out after that and it doesn’t take Tim long to drift off. Raylan, on the other hand, is plagued by his recent insomnia yet again. It’s worse than ever tonight, images of Daryl blending together with images of Kendal and Art in his hospital bed. But it’s Art, hooked up to machines, hanging on the precipice between life and death that haunts him the most. Leslie’s words are reverberating around his skull, _You’re not where you’re supposed to be_ , and in a moment of uncharacteristic clarity Raylan realizes where that place is. At least, for one night. He regretfully dislodges Tim from his side as he sits up and true to form, the other man wakes up instantly. 

“Sorry,” Raylan tells him apologetically. “Didn’t want to wake you.” 

“Why? Where are you going?” 

“Hospital. Want to check up on Art.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Tim offers. 

“No,” Raylan says, a bit more quickly and more sharply than he intended. His tone freezes Tim, who had been about to get out of bed. “It’s something I gotta do alone,” he explains reluctantly, and it sounds lame even to his own ears. 

A mask has fallen over Tim’s face as he settles back on the bed. The other man nods coolly, feigning an indifference to Raylan’s actions and words. _Shit_ , Raylan thinks. It always seems to be one step forward with Tim, followed by two steps back. Why did he suck so badly at relationships? If only reading the signs here were as clear as being able to tell when someone was about to draw on him, life would be so much simpler. 

Raylan doesn’t get out of bed yet, but a gulf feels like it’s opened between the two of them. “This thing with Daryl,” he states. “There’s only one way it’s gonna end.” 

Tim glances at him. “I know,” he replies. 

“And when it’s over,” Raylan continues. “I really am going to head down to Florida, visit Winona and my daughter.” 

“That’s good,” Tim says softly. 

Raylan pauses and this time, he’s the one looking at Tim. “I’d like you to come with me,” he says. “I mean, if you want to.” 

Tim jerks his head in surprise, unable to hide his shock as he meets Raylan’s gaze. He doesn’t say anything right away and when he speaks, it’s the sort of answer that Raylan should’ve expected. 

“Jesus Christ, Raylan,” Tim says, the snark in full force. “Before you know it, we’ll be moving in together. Looking at swatches to decide what color we should paint the walls. Doing the Sunday morning crossword over coffee and donuts.” 

Raylan shakes his head with a rueful smile as Tim rattles off a list of mundane, mainly domestic activities that they’re not likely to do in a million years. He finally gets out of bed, appreciative of Tim’s ability to diffuse the situation with humor. He’d fucked up twice in less than five minutes. First, by preventing Tim from accompanying him to the hospital and then by asking too much of Tim when he suggested that Tim should go with him to Florida. He recalls Tim’s assessment of being all-in or all-out. Tim’s right. There’s no midway for them to meet. 

He gathers his clothes from the foot of the bed and begins to dress. Tim has stopped speaking and Raylan can feel the other man watching him. 

“Raylan,” Tim says, all the levity gone from his voice. 

Raylan looks up, jeans not quite zipped up, the buckle of his belt still undone. He’s holding his white undershirt, just about to slip it on. 

“About Florida,” Tim begins and then stops. He looks Raylan straight in the eye when he says, “I’d like that.” 

Raylan nods, that half-smile forming on his lips that he only seems to get when he’s around Tim. “All right, then,” he agrees. 

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

>  _Justified_ belongs to FX, Graham Yost and Elmore Leonard. No offense is intended, no profit is being made.


End file.
